Braided
by HorseStar1
Summary: She left her silka beads with when she left the temple, and occasionally, he looks at them and remembers the light that they represented. Oneshot!


**Hi!**

**So, I am probably not even a remembered member of fanfiction, because I sort of disappeared into thin air after failing to finish Ascending into the Light.**

**Which will remain non-canon even if I get back to it simply because it's a sequel to DitD, which took place over RoTS (so many acronyms!) **

**But...here I am. I re-watched Ahsoka leave the Order tonight and this came to mind because I'm a sucker for symbolism. :) Anyway, it's a very short oneshot, but...it's something? **

**~HS1**

The braid was a symbol of a young Padawan's apprenticeship; the lock of braided hair on a human was a marking of status, pride. They were a link to the journey that the youth undertook in an effort to become more than a Youngling. She, being a Togruta, did not have the locks of hair that a human had and her braid had been fashioned carefully out of silka beads and strung on her lekku. Perhaps the careful construction marked her pride even more distinctly than it would have otherwise, simply because of the effort spent on those crafted links.

Becoming a Padawan in the midst of the Clone Wars at her age was certainly not an easy feat, yet she handled it gracefully. She had matured into a compassionate, opinionated and confident young woman who stood up for her beliefs.

And they took that away from her.

Her silka beads had been cruelly ripped off of her head in a humiliating sweep, a motion she did not dare speak against. He was agonizingly angry at the council, at Barris, at the entirety of the world. And her?

She had lost everything she stood for and held dear in one motion. They threw her out like she was not of their own kin and then had the _audacity _to state that it was a 'great trial' without ever admitting they had been so stupid, so idiotic and cruel and heartbreakingly callous.

When he was alone in space, away from Padme and _them_, his blood would boil mercilessly and angrily. It scared him. He was terrified of the fiery hatred for what they had done to his young Padawan, because he was supposed to be _with them._

He just didn't understand how they were on the right side, the good side, and could be so wrong.

He kept her Silka beads, the ones that she had curled his hand around right before she walked away from the Temple forever. He kept them in his small pouch as a reminder of their time spent together during the Clone Wars, a reminder that he had had a young Padawan, a child he had sworn never to care for and raise but had somehow come to love as his own.

Sometimes, he would take them out and count the links that bound her to her Padawanship, the symbol of her impending knighthood. He would run them in his flesh hand and ponder the easiness it had once been. At one time, their relationship had been carefree and sweet, but the war grew darker and darker until it consumed them. He was positive the two sides were blending into one, but he could never voice his fears.

Black and white, he would remind himself. They were bad. He and the Jedi were good. They had to be.

So he kept was he knew was good close to heart. Padme. Obi-Wan. And _her_.

But she had left him her silka beads and walked away, and more than anything he wanted to find her and tell her that she was so special to him, that every minute he had spent with her had been worthwhile and that the Council was wrong. She was like a child to him and he loved her for that. She was a light in the darkness of the war, a beacon of bright, hopeful, and joyous energy that radiated laughter and optimism. They needed someone like her, but the Council had blown that light out.

Why was such a beautiful light dangerous? Why did they see it as that? A burning sensation crept into the edges of his vision and he laid his head down and cried silently, bitterly.

How could love be evil? How could they think that? Love was white and light and pure and lovely and it kept him whole.

It was so dark and cold out now, and the silka beads were like the wax of a dead candle that had been burnt to the stub with only a flicker of an ember left.

* * *

A few months after her departure - something he could never find a willingness to actually accept, but at least understood - and the darkness was boiling over.

The leftover warmth from the snubbed out candle that she had been had faded nearly entirely - a then wisp of smoke curled from the darkened end. The world was bleak, desolate, and then _Padme._

How could he survive if absolutely everything he loved and stood for was taken away?

On the eve of his decision, the fateful one in which he blew the whole galaxy apart and recrafted it in a mutilated fashion of tyrancy and hatred, he took out the Silka beads for a final time.

He had to save her and Padme and Obi-Wan.

The Council had been so wrong before. They hadn't listened before and he had to stop it, now, before it was too late.

He dropped the beads and he ran.

* * *

Later, he found himself staring into the empty eyes of a tiny Youngling and he forced himself to swallow any compassion. He reminded himself that the child was just a pawn of the hated council. The Council who had torn everything away from him.

Oh! It was their fault, everything. They were _wrong_, and he...he was right.

Yet...

As he traversed the halls with a swinging vibrant blue lightsaber, he failed to take heed of the crunching sound beneath the heel of his booted foot.

The sound of intricate glass beads, a symbol that stood for purity and light and maturity and growth and Ahsoka Tano, shattering into a million broken shards.

As it turned out, the Council was wrong.

And so was he, and the final spluttering of leftover light from the past flickered and then faded forever.


End file.
